


Secrets

by ahestele



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-07-24
Updated: 2002-07-24
Packaged: 2018-10-16 01:56:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10561446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ahestele/pseuds/ahestele
Summary: Some things you just learn to live with.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written for BuffyAngelImprov: steel, false, letter, shiver

He'd found the box shoved under a corner of the bed amidst a forgotten shoe, socks, both clean and dirty, a plate, thankfully mostly clean, and a faded cassette advertising "Country's Greatest Hits" which he intended to toss just as soon as he got upright from rooting around in the dust bunnies, here. Getting a good grip he pulled it out from around the sagging metal support and broken springs and sat against the enormous cardboard monstrosity that held Xander's sainted comic book collection. Boy wouldn't hear of putting any of it in storage in case he had a bloody comic book emergency. 

Well, he thought, flipping off the lid, if he was going to do most of the packing for their move to the new apartment, he ought to have some snooping rights. A peek of plastic bag over the edge and his first thought was: Weed? Never thought Xander partook. Lad's been holding out on me...then the large block writing on the side of the box caught his attention and he turned it to read. 

DEATH LETTERS. 

The borrowed blood in his veins grew colder and he sat still for a moment, staring at the phrase written in fat black marker, the kind that gave you a decent buzz on if you sniffed hard enough. For long moments he didn't move, wished he'd never found the cursed box, almost got on his knees and shoved it back where it had been because, really, what good way was there to interpret that? He sat in the ticking silence, surrounded by the U-Haul containers and plastic bags that held his lover's life. 

Who'd have thought one kid could accumulate so much refuse? Yearbooks and car mags, school play programs and scads of pictures, three boxes of cassettes without the holders, most of it soddin' lousy music he was going to be sorry he didn't pitch before Xander got home from work, all of it essential, according to Himself, all of it having some funny story or special moment. It was this that finally made him reach in to remove the Ziploc bag with its sheath of envelopes bearing the names of the boy's friends. His too, if he cared to think about it. His concern for Xander. There was no way he could see that on anything belonging to the man he loved and not read it. Or that's what he told himself. The deeper part of him, the part that often sounded like his pouf of a Sire's implacable voice, said different: Who are you kidding Spike? You just have to know. You can no more pretend you've never seen the box than I can pretend I don't miss tearing into a beating jugular and bathing in the fountain of blood.

He opened all the letters. 

They broke his heart. 

Not only because of what they said and the realization that only the possibility of death could wrench these admissions from Xander, but the fact that the boy had them at all. Spike realized soon after he began reading, that these were not suicide notes, as much as he was certain Xander had, at some point in his short, bizarre life, been suicidal. The writing lacked the good-bye-cruel-world quality. These were slices of feeling just in case the boy died. It was Xander's way of making sure everyone knew what was important. 

He didn't think he'd seen anything sadder than those eight envelopes, even if the tone they had wasn't sad at all; just his joking, warm lover's words, so distinctive Spike could almost hear his voice: how much he'd considered Willow his family, and Giles the closest thing to a father he'd ever had. How Anya shouldn't worry; she'd make a great mom someday. None of the letters was longer than a page, but by the time he got to his he was having a hard time seeing. 

The letters had been written, these versions at least, about four months before they first got together. The letter to him spoke of how glad Xander was that they'd become friends, and how much he admired Spike for staying and helping them when he could have gone anywhere, and done anything, even with the chip. Spike smirked to himself as he thought of how, at the date the letter was written, he'd been in the worst form of denial about the feelings that had begun to surface about Xander. A large part of the reason he'd been staying was his deepening friendship with the boy. The hope that said friendship might become more, and, wonder of wonders, it had. 

For no particular reason, he'd left Angel's letter for the last. 

Emotionally wrung out, he considered not reading it at all. Despite these being Xander's innermost thoughts, his expressive partner had made his feelings about Spike's Sire very clear. Everyone knew how his pet felt about Deadboy. 

Showed what they knew. 

"I don't regret anything we did. I know you were Angelus then, but I don't blame you. I liked it. I wouldn't have come back after the first time if I hadn't." They had been lovers. 

A roiling feeling began in the pit of his stomach and for a bad moment he thought the Weatabix and blood he'd had that morning would come back for an encore. Belatedly he realized he'd crumpled the paper in both hands, shredding it. All the sound seemed to have gone out of the room.

Lovers. Bloody hell. Despite himself, images and questions assaulted him, like the pictures on a deck of cards. Angelus tying Spike up, drawing out climax until he begged for release. His Sire offering up the boy like a mere snack. How much must that have hurt? The act took on another level of horror as Spike realized they must have been having sex then. Did Angelus use the knife on him? Spike suddenly remembered the long, deliberate lines he found on Xander's inner arm, and the dismissive explanation. "Kid accident. I wasn't the brightest crayon in the box." He could still see the glint of steel before the knife had been used on his own pale skin, Angelus' gaze hungry before he bent to lap up the blood that rose to the surface. 

"Should have told me." He muttered, scarcely aware he'd spoken out loud and again with his Sire's voice from the peanut gallery, only this time, it was The Other One. The one fond of bright, sharp objects: Come on, Spike. You know why he didn't tell you. Did you really want to know you didn't get there first? Did you want to know everything you have is false? Oops! Too late. His cruel laughter. Who do you think your boy sees when he closes his eyes? 'Cause I gotta tell you he did NOT need any convincing after our first time. I took him regularly. Took him by invitation, if you get my drift. 

"NO." he roared, flinging the bits of paper aside and burying his face in his hands as his demon visage found purchase, rippling and sprouting beneath his fingers. No.

He didn't know how long he sat there, breathing non-existent air, waiting for the ridges on his face to abate. Thoughts chased each other in his head like rats with no way out. Finally only smooth, cool skin touched his fingertips and he sat up, reaching in his pocket for his pack of cigs and his lighter. 

He thought for a long time, aware of the implacable switching of the digital clock numbers, ever closer to when Xander would be home from work. He sat on the bed and read bits and pieces of the letters again, walked around the crowded space, as much as he could, remembering how many places they'd christened, how he enjoyed overcoming Xander's amusing hang ups. His pet could be kind of shy, but that just made it sweeter, better, when he gave in. 

He never thought they'd go a year. For the first few weeks he kept pushing Xander away, consciously and unconsciously, testing him, convinced the kid would come to his senses or bend to the pressure from the rest of the Scoobies, all of who wigged, each in their own special way. Except Bit, but she'd always been the exception, anyhow. 

Xander just kept coming back, kept deflecting the pushes. He showed and did a million different things to show he loved Spike. Told him, too, often. 

Sometimes they'd just be watching telly, or folding laundry and he'd feel that amber stare on him like a weight. When he looked up Xander would reach out to run a rough palm through his hair. "I love you, you know." He'd say, very seriously. "Luv you too, pet." Spike would grin. Immediate. Casual. Clueless.

Finally, he made his decision. He carefully folded the letters and replaced them in their envelopes. The one to Angel was a loss, so he put the envelope back in by itself. Making sure the Ziploc bag sealed securely he bent down and pushed the box back into its corner. After one more smoke and throwing away the bits of the letter he destroyed, he started dinner. 

The sound of the door opening made him look over his shoulder. 

"Honey, I'm home." Xander called, bouncing down the stairs and doffing the yellow construction helmet. 

"Good day?" Spike said, stirring the contents on the stove. 

"Mm. Smells good. Yeah, OK day. I had to turn down some overtime this weekend, but if I hadn't there's no way we'd get this stuff moved, even with Buffy's slayer strength. Hey, you got a lot done." 

"Yeah." Xander came up behind him to kiss his shoulder, as was his custom, but Spike turned, covered the lips with his own, hard, and stole an arm around his lovers waist. The base of Xander's back was sweaty. 

"And who missed me?" Xander breathed when Spike let him up for air, motes of honey dancing in his brown eyes with nothing more exotic than the kitchen light. 

"I did." Spike said into his mouth, searching for another kiss, but the younger man moved away with a smile. 

"Uh-uh Mr. Grabby Hands. Shower now. Grope later. Deal?"

"Deal." Watched him disappear into the loo. His eyes were burning and he blinked twice. This was never going to work if he didn't get a grip on himself. 

"Hey." Xander's voice sounded and he turned around after composing himself. 

The boy leaned out of the bathroom door with knit brows that didn't go with the wide smile. "You OK? Getting kind of a heavy vibe."

"'M fine. Go on now, or I will join you in there, and sod the bloody packing." Exaggerated roll of eyes and he ducked back in the door. Minutes later the shower sounded. 

"You're not getting this." Spike whispered to a vampire who no longer even existed. Not unless he found himself some happy out there in L.A., and Spike didn't think so. He talked to him just the same. "This is mine. You cannot have this round." Can you hear me Angelus, you twisted shit? 

The shower turned off and he heard Xander moving around before he walked out in a cloud of steam and shampoo fragrance. He wore only sweat pants. 

"Much better. Need help with..." Spike walked over and hooked two fingers in the waist of the loose garment, dragging it down with him as he knelt and took Xander in his mouth one smooth move. "....anything. Oh, god..."

The texture danced on his tongue, velvet smooth, rock hard and heated, like a furnace. He fisted his hands on Xander's hips, holding them fast as he drew back to trace circles on the swollen head and deep throat him again, and his lover staggered against the wall, gasping, calloused palms buried in white blond hair. Mine, mine, he's mine, the mantra matched the rhythm of his pumping mouth and his hands, with needs of their own, fumbled the lube out of his pocket and flicked the top off with one practiced thumb. 

Pants and moans escaped his lover's lips and he reveled in them as he claimed, reclaimed, possessed to quiet the clamoring of hurt and pain in his chest. A slick finger traveled the tender skin behind the already tightening sack and slid in Xander's tight aperture slowly, and he let out a shuddering breath at the intrusion, large hands pulling his head now, fucking into his mouth as Spike's finger picked up the cadence, matched it. His other hand tore at his jeans until they opened. 

"Spike, please...." Ragged plea. "P....please, I'm close...." Spike pulled Xander's legs out from under him with no warning and collapsed them both, driving himself into his lover in a quick, vicious thrust. 

Quick intake of breath, and wide amber eyes met his as he began to move in short, precise bursts. His hands on Xander's ass trembled and the body straddling his shook with each stroke, but met it, every time. Mine, mine, mine, and he couldn't get enough of him, had to go deeper, harder, to feel him, and Xander's lids scrunched closed, hands clutching his shoulders hard enough to hurt as Spike worked him. 

"Look..." The words fought their way out in a ragged whisper. "....at me."

Long lashes fluttered open, beautiful eyes sparked with comprehension and the sheen of *tears?* when strong legs closed around his waist and brought him in impossibly deep, his lover crying out, and everything slipped apart. He began to lose rhythm then Xander cupped his face with shivering fingers and invaded his mouth, tongue fencing with his hotly, lips pulling and tugging at the fleshiness there, and the quaking began in his arms. He gripped the weeping cock between them, pulled twice, hard and his lover screamed into his mouth as he came, tongue cutting on his teeth, and he hadn't even realized he'd gone gameface. The tang of blood sang into him, lust, pain, love, goodness and he pumped Xander down, held as he howled out the orgasm ripping him apart. 

For long moments they slumped against each other, eyes closed, foreheads touching, panting, as the world returned. He realized he could barely feel his legs because they'd been folded under all this time, but for the moment, he couldn't move. Xander dropped his head back on the wall and opened his eyes, the amber gone dark. They looked at each other in silence until his lover asked softly. "What was that?"

"Bloody good shag?" He tried for levity and almost made it. He could never speak afterwards, and especially now as he noticed the drying trail of tears among the perspiration on Xander's face. It would have blended, but he could smell the salt.

"Well, yeah." Xander smiled a little, poor imitation of his usual warm grin, and he knew him too well, the lad did. 

"You okay? Bit of rough there..."

"Fine." Xander said absently, hand coming up to touch Spike's cheek, and all good, his eyes no longer burned, his throat no longer constricted, and he could lay his face against the warm, carpenter's palm and close his eyes. 

"You want to tell me about it?" Gentle, concerned voice. "Cause otherwise, that's a hell of a way to get out of packing."

Spike opened his eyes and studied the face in front of him. Damp dark hair, illegally long lashed brown eyes and that mouth. Jesus, so bloody beautiful. It staggered him sometimes, the love and acceptance and caring there.

"Just needed that, luv. Needed you like that."

Xander didn't all the way buy it, but he took it. Maybe he sensed something in Spike praying he would. "You got me, Fangless."

"Yeah." He whispered with something like wonder. He was still in Xander as they sat, soft but buried, curled into each other in damp, warm cocoon. Then the muscled arms were around him, gathering him in, close, and Spike went, wondering how this kid knew what he needed more than he did sometimes.

Xander's stomach growled into the moment and he lifted his head to meet sheepish brown eyes. "Hungry, pet?"

"You think? I was trying to eat dinner when this bleached vamp committed a perverted act upon my person. I might need therapy." 

"Right." Spike scoffed and leaned in to brush his mouth over Xander's lips, and they were there, in the space where they swam so effortlessly. God, I love you boy. The revelation under the bed could stay there. 

 

~*~*~* TWO WEEKS LATER

 

Spike pushed open the door and walked slowly down the stairs into the musty basement. Particles of dust floated in the light from the overhead bulb. Without Xander's perpetual clutter the place was robbed of any warmth it might have had and it looked like the dark, drab place it was.  
He'd volunteered to do the "last sweep" to see if they had forgotten anything, or had second thoughts about taking this or that knick knack. He had forgotten his discovery under the bed as much as he could, and concentrated on Xander's enthusiasm for their new digs. They were cool, roomier and faced away from the morning light. Yet all the while, he knew he'd be doing this, and felt only cursory guilt for how simple it had been to finagle the task his way. 

Approaching the bed he stood for a moment, thought seriously of turning and walking out of this dank hovel, not looking back. But he was, after all, him, and so he caved, dropping to his stomach and reaching under the sagging sofa bed once more.

His hand hit the same thing in the same place, and he tugged it out, wiping the dust on his jeans as he sat on the bed. He sat with it on his lap for while, wrapping his mind around the fact that it was still there, what that could mean. When he opened it and fished out the Ziploc bag, it, too, had been undisturbed, the envelopes still unsealed, Angel's still empty. 

So he had just left it. Despite the many chances Xander had to retrieve this, he never had. All these thoughts and confessions tucked under a corner, not taken, and why....?

Because, Spike, Angel's voice whispered to him in his head, he doesn't need them anymore. 

The box in his hands wavered and he shut his eyes for a minute to clear his vision. Then he returned it to it's home and got to his feet, dusting off his hands on his way out. 

He'd tell Xander they didn't forget anything in this place they wanted. Nothing at all.


End file.
